


maps

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always been interested in maps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maps

John has always been interested in maps. As a boy, he draws out the places he has been to, sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor clutching a stack of crayons, scribbling names _mum teacher bus people_ as the lines grow. It’s around this time that he develops his habit of carrying some sort of writing apparatus constantly, reaching into his pocket and knowing he will be able to record a moment in time forever. 

In medical school it proves infinitely useful (if only to doodle during lectures) and he sketches out diagrams, bone structures, muscle arrangements, where to precisely inject an anaesthetic and the phone number of the tall brunette that he later feels up in the supply closet.

In Afghanistan it’s a bit different, because he rarely has time to turn to his notebook, and when he does all he can think is _death_ and it doesn’t sit too pretty on the page. What spare moments he has are spent eating, fooling around with his mates and recovering from the hot torrent of adrenaline constantly roaring through his veins.

And so when he returns to London, injury in all its glory, he finds his notebook pretty much empty. There’s one entry from his first day - _bloody hell it’s hot_ \- a few rushed maps of his surroundings from different angles and then nothing

It is not until he meets Sherlock that his pen moves again.

Now he finds he has too much to write and ends up putting the majority of it in his blog, anyway. He can’t type half as fast as he can write but he sticks to his therapist’s orders and besides, he quite likes the thought that people are bothering to read them. And a lot of people do, to Sherlock’s deep irritation. Sherlock obsesses over each entry with his laptop hidden on his lap, but John is not as stupid as he thinks and it is the sole reason he keeps writing them. 

He saves paper for sketches of crime scenes, notes upon notes of Sherlock’s deductions that end up making as little sense as they had when spoken. It’s a collection of mess; Sherlock’s far too quickly spat out rants, words and pieces and small things he says to himself that he thinks no one else can hear. Some things that he spells out so clearly to John that he wants to hit him, and some things that he _never_ explains which makes John want to hit him even more. 

Alongside all these facts are intricate, insignificant details that are probably the most important things he records. Like the way Sherlock’s eyes move and jump and dance in their sockets when he is working something out, the way they dilate when he is on the cusp of a revelation. The quick patterns Sherlock creates with his fingers, drumming on his knees while he is fixated on his laptop. The curve of his back as he loses himself in his microscope, as if he is trying desperately to remain upright when really he wants to climb and mould himself into the lenses and dials, - (The twitch of his nose right before he smiles) - all of these are important for a reason John cannot fully comprehend, so he simply records them and stores them, hoarding them for a time when perhaps he will be able to understand.

John reads back through them each night and can see them linking together like the roots of a tree, can see the patterns and pictures they create and it is fascinating, really truly _extraordinarily_ beautiful.

He is in bed, several nights after Baskerville, when he comes to the sudden realisation that what he holds in his hands is gold. The paper is thin and the ink has bled through on several pages and most are stained with tea spills and crinkled, but it is _gold_ nonetheless. Precious and completely unique.

John has a map to Sherlock’s head. 

It’s all there, written down in black and white. There is no direction, no scale or indication of distance. It’s unreadable. But John knows, somewhere shrouded in data and shorthand and irrational scribble, is the answer to Sherlock and he will never work it out. It is infuriating because sometimes he wants so very much just to be able to listen to him and know things that his head isn’t built to handle.

John stops rereading his notebook after that night. Just in case, in some miraculous alternate reality, he accidently stumbles upon the answer. 

After the twentieth notebook he upgrades to quality leather bound pocket books, unlined, and orders in bulk to save his cash. More often than not he finds himself drawing instead of writing - faces, maps of London back streets that keep appearing out of nowhere, buildings, possible murder weapons, a violin (a long pale hand and the line of a strong jaw).

His notebook is with him right up until the very last moment. John clutches it instinctively in the folds of his inside pocket, until the pads of his fingers burn, the whole twelve minute cab ride to St Bart’s.

When Sherlock jumps ( _he didn’t fall, he jumped_ ) his words are choked and wrong and lie dead in his throat forever more.

John’s record of the last month is knocked from his pocket as the bicycle hits him.

He doesn’t ever go back to find it.

\-----

_Maps._

And John is reminded of all of that, now, as he stands rigid before his flat door.

It all hits him painful and bright and square in the middle of his forehead. Attached to the peeling blue paint is a small square of paper and handwriting that makes bile rise in his throat.

 _Vatican Cameos_ , it reads.

John tries to ignore the tremor in his hands as he wraps them around his cocked gun. He attempts to catch his breath but it’s already dead and gone, so instead he sets his jaw and kicks the door open.

Sherlock does not jump at the sound of splintering wood, and John is not surprised.

The Dead Man does stumble though, seeming to hover on the outline of consciousness, and mouths _John_ before he falls to the floor.

\-----


End file.
